There she laid, in the black pools of her eyes as her future sped on 




Words calm her as much as a trembling cup to a drowned mans lips


I won’t see her like this


A wilted flower not yet in blossom


Plucked and retrieved to be laid under glass and questioned for its being


She’s much too young for such questions


She’s much too vivacious to be this drawn


Like a tight drum that’s beat upon by life’s brutish hands


How if I could take her, cup her visage and lay it in a light


Free from her being, mind undrawn


To see her petals quiver under the unyielding ray of self expression


And bloom as she should. 


That I would finally see her happy. 



Truly happy. 

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